no man ever made a herring into an aero bubble bar
of a hot-chocolate healing
to ensure that all the rations of the healing goosebumps
of pickled penises were actually regurgitated
for memorabilia & postcards, and none
made representative of gherkins
doing the required prickling of an o.m.g.-spot
in salted brine to carve out an eve in northern judea:
frozen eden, pickled east, forever the labouring sun
of lost shadow - mein verlust... mein vorhaben.
when i die, i just want to speak german, that’s all.